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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26516914">Reluctance - Back into the World</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cillo89/pseuds/Lioheij'>Lioheij (Cillo89)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>104th Training Corps - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Birthday Party, Broken Families, Celebrations, Cemetery, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by K-Drama | Korean Drama, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Restaurants, Resurrection, Reunions, Sad, Supernatural Elements</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 09:21:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26516914</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cillo89/pseuds/Lioheij</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate took Eren Jäger from his friends and family thirteen years ago. Defying the rules of science, ethics and morality, Eren resurfaces and everyone has to brace themselves for his comeback into the world. He aims to rebuild what his death has destroyed, but he learns quickly that time sure has passed, and that the friends he knew are no longer...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carla Yeager/Grisha Yeager, Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir, Levi/Erwin Smith, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein, Mikasa Ackerman/Jean Kirstein, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Fly into heaven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello, this is one of my first AOT fics. It's completely spoiler-free for Season 4 (which is about to air). It's heavily inspired by the only K-drama I watched: "Reunited Worlds". Hope you'll like it!</p><p>Also follow my aot Twitter account I need more friends: https://twitter.com/lioheij</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>March 17<sup>th</sup>, 2018</h2><p>"At least, the sun's shining this time around", Connie comments with an innocent smile. "Standing there under the rain sucks. All it's good for is making me sick for days."</p><p>"I feel that", Armin tells him. "Moreover, I like it better when we visit them with the sun out. I always feel lighter after that."</p><p>They walk into the cemetery while exchanging pleasantries. Neither has flowers. It’s been years since they anyone last brought flowers, since they all knew there would be no one to care for them. They pass by the long alleyways separating the gravestones.</p><p>Armin feels the wind’s caress on his cheeks. He keeps his gaze straight forwards, never does he look, scared he might read the names engraved in the stone. He is aware of Connie’s presence at his side, like he knows where his feet and hands are, and he almost feels comfortable next to him. Connie knows how to empower those around him, mainly because it’s always a reassurance to have someone with such a lack of qualities in so many domains.</p><p>Armin laughs silently. That’s a roast that would have made many others laugh in another context.</p><p>"Should we go to her first?" Armin asks.</p><p>At the fourth crossroad, where the free places are becoming scarce, Connie finally answers:</p><p>"I'll go see her…s first, if that's okay."</p><p>"Go. I'll be- well, you know where I’ll be."</p><p>Connie nods at him and proceeds onwards without looking back. Armin tries not to glare at him for too long, and as he feels the wind mess with his hair, he heads to his destination as well. His steps are light, they are fairy steps, they are the droplets before they touch the water’s surface, they are the wind gushes which whistle through the leaves, they are the sunbeams caressing the green Nature and mankind.</p><p>He is in a delightful mood, in a stupidly delightful mood. He parades on the alleyway with a mechanical ease, like a dance ingrained in the body, which dances without thinking. He’s got a free mind, his worries blown away. He seeks this euphoria each time, and that’s even why he doesn’t take his glasses or contacts with him. That way, he cannot decipher the names floating around.</p><p>He reaches his friend’s grave. In the past, he used to mourn in silence. Nowadays, he can’t say if it was out of respect or out of grief. It was a way which worked back then, but he learned to find pleasure in discourse. His speeches were first shy, he found himself stupid, almost vulgar. He thought of his friends, still alive, full of commiseration for them, who had never set foot on the cemetery’s ground. This stupid mindset did not live on. He revealed himself to be a talker, and his endless discussions don’t have any other justification than helping him soothe the grief away.</p><p>The wind starts up again, strongly this time, and leaves him disheveled. He replaces his bangs with his hand, and, without any introduction, he talks.</p><p>“Mikasa isn’t here. She still refuses to come. I don't think it's against you. But it’s me alone, for now. Connie will be here soon too. We wanted to come for your birthday, but we both are unavailable that day, so excuse us for coming some days sooner.”</p><p>He breathes in deeply and looks around with delight.</p><p>“News from your sister!” he shouts excitedly. “She’s been well. I… think. She isn’t the talkative type, we both know that. She invited me to go to some fancy restaurant to celebrate her new job, though. She’s an assistant cook, now, officially. In a fancy place and all. Would’ve expected her to treat me to beer while watching <em>Farmer Wants a Wife</em>, guess she wanted to be all formal for once. I still think we do casual better. Especially with Mikasa. You know, I’m kind of awkward around her. It’s been like that for a while… it was hard to get a hold of her some years ago, so we kind of went our separate ways… It sounds sad when I say it like that, but it actually helped me get some time alone to reflect on stuff and all. I enjoy working at the library, but since I’ve always wanted to work with kids, I think I’m gonna try to apply for a school library? It sounds simple put that way, but without any diplomas, huh… Well, I’m not complaining.</p><p>A pregnant pause.</p><p>"I-I don't know what else to say. I'm sorry, Eren.”</p><p>Armin tucks his hair behind his ear. Old habits die hard.</p><p>"I'm-I don't know. I'm fine? Guess I haven't told you about how I am. It's been less fun than usual for me, but I still love hanging out with my coworkers, it sort of god boring with time, is all. Uhm… I got this new fantasy book I really like, it's more of a series of books, though. It kind of reminds me of you! It's the kind of stories we'd play sometimes in your videogames. I mean, it's not as empowering as <em>Assassin's Creed</em>, but I like the message it has. And, yeah... Oh, Connie's coming."</p><p>He doesn't know why he speaks so much. It’s the void he’s talking to, and the void is hardly known for his captivating answers.</p><p>"Wassup", Connie announces himself. "So, what gives? He's still under there? Someone told him that hide and seek is over?"</p><p>Armin gives a hearty laugh. Because it’s dumb, because it’s anything but funny.</p><p>“Not sure they’re coming back here anytime soon...” Armin mutters, his laugh lingering in his tone. “Our parties would be a lot funnier."</p><p>"Please, they'd get drunk off anything and we'd have more problems that we'd have bargained for."</p><p>"That's so mean!" Armin fakes outrage and slaps his shoulder. "Give them some respect! Can't deny that though. Well, since you’re here, Eren, happy birthday."</p><p>Connie eyes him surreptitiously, yet Armin feels his glare pierce his skull. He knows Connie doesn't like it when he talks to them like that, so he closes his mouth after his wishes and doesn't dare to open it again. The silence becomes heavy and he indicates that he’s ready to leave, signing to Connie without looking at him. He turns around and bumps into somebody out of nowhere.</p><p>A tall man with long hair, unbrushed, his beard not cared for, gives him a most apathetic expression. Then, the man half-smiles. He has his hands buried in his jeans pockets, his white button shirt clashes with the rest of him under that sun.</p><p>"Jean?"</p><p>Connie almost spits his name in his surprise. The man merely reacts, keeps his eyes on Armin, who finds himself reddening at the man's intensity. From Armin's perspective, Jean <em>is</em> menacing. Always has been, anyhow. Since they first met, his sulky, whiny personality captivated everyone and got him attention. Not always in a good way, and Jean was rarely depicted in a good light, especially with his mean tricks and his sly eyes. He has become a master in the arts of being subtle. Discreet. <em>That</em> is menacing.</p><p>"What are you doing here?"</p><p>Connie fails to control his anger and lets his venom trickle into his tone.</p><p>"What do you fucking do in a cemetery?" Jean barks back.</p><p>"Pay respect to my friends. Something you can't do."</p><p>Connie's implications must hurt in a way that Armin doesn't want to imagine. Jean’s raised fist, ready to strike Connie down, is only stopped by Armin’s meek, weak voice.</p><p>"Hey, uhm... let's not fight here. Not here."</p><p>"You know what, I don't even want to fight. See you in hell, assholes."</p><p>Jean gives them the finger and takes his leave without another word. Armin throws a glance in Connie's direction above his shoulder. With his arms crossed, Connie avoids Armin’s eyes, but still boils with a teeming ire, which overflows and appears on his cheeks. Armin hesitates a moment, then runs up to Jean, reaching his shoulderblade.</p><p>‘"Jean, you can stay. We were leaving anyway."</p><p>He knows Jean is a scumbag. He knows he's toxic, that he’s aged to become the worst kind of person, but Armin can't bring himself to deny Jean that right. No matter how he feels about him, no matter the harsh words Jean has spoken towards him. No matter who he has become, Jean was a friend of Eren’s, his frenemy in a way. Armin can’t bring himself to deny the past.</p><p>If it's the only good thing Jean does in his life nowadays, then he should be allowed to mourn Eren. Not like their dead friend could judge Jean. Connie had said that one: they don’t mourn the dead for the dead, but for themselves.</p><p>Armin lets go of Jean. He turns around and takes Connie by the arm this time, leading him away, while Jean ogles them savagely; a snake, viciously bestial. Armin doesn't sigh nor does he complain. He grits his teeth and walks away.</p><p>"Why d'you let him..." Connie says after passing the entrance gate. "You know what he's done and said, I... Fuck, Armin, he's on your best fri-"</p><p>"I'm not Eren's guardian. It isn't my job to protect his honor and it sure as hell isn't my job to control who can and can't mourn him. Not after all these years. Us going to see him isn't a weird act of benevolence for <em>him</em>. He's dead, Connie. There is nothing we can do for him. I go see him for myself, because I like remembering what it was like when he was still around. When my grandfather was still here, when I could go to his house and play videogames with him. When I used to help him study on tests and when we'd have fun in the weekends. Can you blame Jean for trying to remember these times too?”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“I'm not forgiving him. He's lost himself. But if I were in his shoes, trying to find a meaning to this cruel life, well, I'd mourn someone who used to be my friend. And I'd go mourn him at his graveside."</p><p>"It's... not easy."</p><p>To accept? To be merciful? To remain clearminded? Armin isn't sure what his friend means, yet he nods.</p><p>"It is what it is." He says with a lighthearted laugh. "C'mon, don't let him ruin your day. What have you planned?"</p><p>"Oh, I'm going to the gym. I would assume you're not down for it."</p><p>"I can't anyway, I got some work to do."</p><p>"That's a fair. See you, man."</p><p>"See you."</p><p>They part ways with light shoulders in spite of everything.</p><p>Armin is lucid. He is aware that the same can’t be said of Connie, because pain still blinds him, and death’s veil has become opaque. That’s what means it means, to be lucid. It’s seeing the light.</p><p>It doesn’t make Armin a negative person. Seeing the light, it’s seeing the dawn each day, it’s seeing the birth of the Sun on the horizon, it’s keeping his head high and his eyes open. It’s looking up to the stars, drawing the constellations, it’s keeping a frail kind of hope between his fingers.</p><p>That’s where the upside and the downside meet.</p><p> </p>
<h2>April 1<sup>st</sup>, 2018</h2><p>Armin sighs from exhaustion after sending his last email of the day. He sprawls himself on his chair. It’s been hours and hours of sending emails over emails. Drafts over drafts, editing, reformatting, hesitating.</p><p>He wants to change career.</p><p>Worn out, tired, bored, he doesn’t know exactly why himself. What he knows for sure, is that he wants a change of pace, he wants a new life. He isn’t fooled in any kind of way though. An adult, without any diploma, who doesn’t know how to use his hands for anything, well, isn’t exactly a good bet for the future, and few are the people who would hire him based on recommendations, without any empirical proof of their veracity.</p><p>He observes, with an odd face, his little printer spit out his sheet. On top of it is a stack of paper. It’s crowned by a notebook with all his useful contacts inside, every connection, collected over his entire life, and he hopes they’re going to be enough, because he can’t imagine himself back on the market at thirty-one, with nothing else to offer but the pretty paleness of his hands and his elegant way of talking.</p><p>An answer he awaits impatiently is that of the school director of the highschool he went to fifteen years ago or so. A man, now creased by years of tireless work, who still has the energy to manage the school. It’s impressive. Armin has spent some afternoons at this man’s house when he was still a teen, along with his grandfather, since the two were close friends. He remembers the hot days spent listening to them, as they went on about fishing. He’d wait for the neighbors’ son to come home.</p><p>It’s not like he can force destiny anyway. If there’s nothing out there for him, he’ll keep his job as a library assistant, and will continue sorting the books in a deadly silence. It’s not for money he wants a change, he wants more, wants to satisfy the ambitions he’s nurtured along the years without realizing. They grew in him like a plant one has forgotten about, except the rain had taken over assiduously. He cannot hinder this natural desire for change, doesn’t want to cut the stem before seeing the flowers.</p><p>He stands up from his chair and throws himself on the couch. His eyes close themselves on their own, he struggles to stay awake. He’d like to give himself this well-deserved rest, but he also knows he has overworked himself, and Mikasa will soon be here.</p><p>The sun beams over his street and enters his living room thanks to the high window. The days get longer in March, Armin stretches with the thought of the hot sunlight that awakes him in the mornings. Nights, however, grow shorter. Short nights call for summer, they smell asphalt after a downpour, they bring comfort to balance out with the harsh winter nights.</p><p>They remind him of the evenings spent with friends around a campfire. Memories of a festival from five years ago rise in him, right before he hears knocking.</p><p>He stands up, removes his glasses, and hurries to the door. He smiles when he sees Mikasa on his porch, wrapped up snugly in her coat, as usual. Her long, black coat runs down her body. She keeps her hands in her pockets, and as she greets Armin, she looks like a statue of obsidian, of black marble. Never one to be too expressive, or excessive, she lets herself be guided to the entrance, then stops abruptly.</p><p>“Suit yourself, I’m gonna go get dressed, alright? Sorry, I overdid with work again…”</p><p>“It’s fine.”</p><p>Armin abandons her and leaves for his room, so she behaves and waits near the doorstep, her bag still perched on her shoulder. With her surliness, she hardly passes for anything but annoyed, but the rare occasions where her appearance and her sentiment overlap honor her short temper.</p><p>She scrutinizes Armin’s flat with caution, her eyes, two black dots, travel frenetically, she doesn’t linger, jumps from an item to another without considering them, like the endless flapping of butterfly wings, she never fixates her gaze on anything, and looks around stupidly.</p><p>Thing is, she doesn’t like Armin’s flat. And she doesn’t like the way Armin talks about it.</p><p>
  <em>I didn’t have the time to clean! Oh, sorry, the carpet’s drying at the window. Yeah, I’ll decorate it some day! The colors are bad, I know.</em>
</p><p>If only his words were taken into consideration, one would think Armin lives among trash, a lifeless, soulless place. He doesn’t do it to be annoying, and she knows it, but she can’t help the grimace of disgust when he self-deprecates about the cleanness of his apartment either.</p><p>The flat is undoubtedly clean, an immaculate floor and a table which has never seen anything but slight disorder. She doesn’t dare to dirty the welcome mat, scared it might bother him. That is what she is anyway. A bother. She feels like a stain, like a small, annoying thing which is hard to get rid of.</p><p>Armin isn’t aware of that. At least, she never heard him badmouth her. Then again, Armin is benevolent and welcoming. He isn’t the reason as to why she feels like an unsavory individual.</p><p>There is, on one of Armin’s walls, a shelf. It’s not visible from the entrance, but Mikasa distinguishes it through the walls. She knows where it is exactly, could draw its outline on the wallpaper, to warn all future visitors. Could create a panel “proceed with caution”. This shelf, more like an altar, haunts her. On the polished, wooden strip lies a field of photographs, flowers planted along with the years, and the deaths.</p><p>As gloomy as it may sound, this thought alone occupies her mind when she pays Armin a visit. On this altar, the pictures of their now dead friends. All the pictures Armin deemed worthy of this sepulchral honor. The first time she saw it, it engraved itself in her mind, and torments her regularly. She can close her eyes, and see them clearly: five frames properly aligned, a candle at each extremity of the strip. Armin lights them up each evening before dinner, then forgets about them.</p><p>But the printed faces don’t change. They look forwards, tirelessly, they do not look away.</p><p>If she closed her eyes, she’d see Sasha offering the camera a joyful face and a sunny smile. The photo was taken when she bought her first car by the sweat of her brow. The get-together she had organized had been legendary, one of the best evenings of her life. Sasha was happy to still make them laugh, happy she had stayed the same after growing up, although she had lost some of her innocence. The questions she used to ask sometimes… Mikasa could list out the dumbest thing Sasha had ever said, always with this starstruck smile.</p><p>If she closed her eyes, she’d see Marco, about to fall onto the ground. This picture was taken by Connie in the dressing rooms of the gym. In the showers. There is Jean, facing the wall, completely naked, and a surprised Marco, who draws a towel to himself so quickly that it appears blurry. On the right, there is Thomas’ leg.</p><p>If she closed her eyes, she’d see Eren. Her brother, stolen from her. He’s sitting on a dock, a night where fireworks lit up the sky. He is looking beyond gigantic trees, behind which the colors come to existence. On his right is Armin. On his left is she. They are both holding hands, and she’s keeping her scarf close to her mouth.</p><p>She’d see a number of things if she dared.</p><p>Her phone vibrates in her pocket. She ignores it. The vibration persists, so she turns it off altogether.</p><p>“You should’ve picked out a dress before I came”, she says after limping towards the bedroom door, then laughs as she hears Armin’s chuckle.</p><p>“Pleeaaase! I’m trying to fit in these stupid pants!”</p><p>“Get over it. You got fat. Now get out there.”</p><p>“You’re so mean.” He declares after opening the door, still half naked. “I don’t have the time to exercise! And I don’t need it. Since I didn’t get fat. I’m having a growth spurt.”</p><p>“Obviously. Growth spurts at thirsty are often heard of. Come on little on, a pair of jeans and we’re out. I’m not dressing like a Disney princess, so you don’t need to be the charming prince.”</p><p>Armin has the audacity of looking offended, then closes the door again silently, which makes Mikasa snicker lightly. Why close the door, since he has shown himself in underwear anyway?</p><p>After fifteen minutes, they manage to leave the flat.</p><p>“So, everything alright?” her friend inquires.</p><p>Mikasa’s mind provides her with thoughts she can’t ignore, which tear her spirit apart and unsettle her. She thinks about Armin’s place again. She hates it, detests it, it’s unfair, but she abhors it and loathes it. She imagines the instants of life captured on paper, these lively eyes, these breaths blocked in another dimension. She sees them, their young features, which look at Armin live, these spies from hell, and she tells herself that, in his stead, she’d rather never see them again. This weakness of hers, she’s grown to hate it as well.</p><p>She never lies to herself.</p><p>To others, though…</p><p>“Yes. Thanks. What about you?”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<h2>
  <em>???</em>
</h2><p>Something is bothering him. Eren stirs in his sleep, without realizing it, until he's uncomfortable. His bed is hard and cold and <em>wet</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Wet?</em>
</p><p>All of a sudden, he opens his eyes and feels shame climbing up his cheeks. Well at least, this time around, it's not sticky and icky. He pushes the sensation away as he focuses his eyes and admires the blue vastness of the sky. Some clouds dot this immensity, like trees on a plain, they are inherent to its beauty and serenity.</p><p>Wait, what the <em>fuck</em>?</p><p>What is he doing outside?</p><p>He sits up and immediately recognizes the soccer field of his school. No one to be seen, except him, sat in the middle of it, on the grass, on a morning kissed with dew. That explains the wetness, so he isn't <em>as</em> ashamed in the end. The morning is fresh still – he isn’t cold – and the wind’s freshness burns his nose like mint. He has no explanation for his presence there, and not in his room instead, he isn’t tired, isn’t hurting anywhere. He’s well. His clothes have not suffered from a night spent outside. Worried, and by a quick and elegant check, he knows he’s not smelly either. He racks his brain, questions the black hole in his memory, but nothing about the last night comes up.</p><p>Someone’s coming, however. He hears them before seeing them, bursts of laughter rise exaggeratedly. At their outfit, he knows it’s a PE class approaching. They are all dressed adequately, although some look readier than others. Some go to a bench directly, those ones aren’t dressed for exercise, so Eren guesses which teacher it is. There is only who’d allow someone not to participate.</p><p>He stands up tentatively, as if he were about to get scolded. The lightness of his body surprises him. A sensation climbs up his legs, he feels unused to walking and risks light steps. He heads towards the masses of students, who all glare at him distrustfully, exchanging suspicious whispers. He notices a group of girls who all stare with a dumb air, a smirk decorates their lips. Eren sincerely hopes he doesn’t look like trash with his sorry, limping ass.</p><p>“Hey, uhm, where’s the teacher?”</p><p>He’s said clearly, yet, sis question remains unanswered. After some painfully long seconds, a girl – no, it’s a woman, – turns on her heels and nods at Eren questioningly.</p><p>“What do you need?”</p><p>Eren is perplexed. Who is that? Apart from the fact that he has never seen her around before, she has this unique way of considering him, as if she could pierce through his body with her eyes, although he’s got nothing to show than what people see.</p><p>“Uhm, nothing… I gotta... I’m gonna go.”</p><p>Was she new? A substitute, perhaps? It’s a shame he’s a last year student and that he’s grade has already been decided, since he would have gladly changed class for this teacher.</p><p>The teacher offers him a tightlipped smile, her mouth closes itself like an o, and with another thoroughly considered nod, she hints that she has better things to do. Her class remains inattentive, they watch, like vultures, Eren leaving, as if it were the first time they have seen him parade. He must admit, there has been many faces he hasn’t recognized himself, so perhaps it is their first time seeing him. And that would quite the unexpected development. He is relatively well known because of his mishaps. Not many haven’t heard about him, but what can he do about it? There has to be two or three nerds who live to deep in their nerdy worlds to know about his him in the real world.</p><p>Or so he guesses.</p><p>The walk to the main hall has him more confused than ever, mainly because the signs of oddity keep jumping at his eyes everywhere he looks. They’re not unexplainable oddities, they’re more like situations with such an exact normality rate that he can’t seem to grasp the reality of things. As complicated as it may seem, it is frightening. The example of a girl who passes by, her hands on a phone – because it had to be a phone, right? – with seemingly no buttons, yet she’s pressing on her screen ardently. She’s just passing by, so, once she’s far behind, he stops dead in his track and looks back, and wonders what kind of device she’s using. Also, with the speed she was typing at, she’d have to pay such high phone fees.</p><p>So, it’s not all surreal. It’s unusual at best. He isn’t going to complicate things.</p><p>He treads onwards. After witnessing completely common cars, apart from their shapes which are unheard of, he meets people dressed like he’s never seen before: either too sexy to be shown, or so ridiculous it’d need to be hidden. After a while, he reaches the school hall’s entranceway.</p><p>With confident but relaxed steps, he advances, hands in his pockets, towards a billboard located at the base of the entrance. He expects to see his reflection in the glass grown brown with time. But the glass isn’t brown. It isn’t brand new either, but it looks recent, and he’s happy to know the school’s started to make improvements to their dusty old stuff. He adjusts his cap onto the side and leans in to read as much as he can.</p><p>
  <em>“March 30<sup>th</sup>, 2018”</em>
</p><p>For a first sentence, it’s quite shocking. He tries to read other documents, but all of them indicate the same date, or somewhere around it, all of them marked in 2018.</p><p>A man comes near and Eren hurries towards the man:</p><p>“Hey sir, what day is it today?”</p><p>The man lifts his gaze from the screen and announces the time, visibly baffled by the person before him.</p><p>“March 30<sup>th</sup>. Why aren’t you in class?”</p><p>“I’m… I must go to see the school secretary. There.”</p><p>The man doesn’t give it much more thought and leaves simply, leaving Eren quite puzzled.</p><p>He climbs up the stairs and enters the hall, then wanders through the long, austere corridors. Corridors he knows, but they have changed a bit since last time he came. Which <em>should</em> be yesterday. He reaches the supervisor’s office, a woman he has made fun for most of his life, for being a crazy old hag. He knocks, wondering about what stupidity she’d bring to the table today.</p><p>The door opens. He is greeted by a friendly man. As weird as his life has become as of late, it may be the least unusual situation after all. That crazy old hag was bound to be replaced at some point. No wonder it happened without warning.</p><p>“Hello, sir, I’d like to call my mother. I’m feeling really bad...?”</p><p>“Have you seen the nurse?”</p><p>The nurse? Since when does his school have a nurse? How was he not aware of this?</p><p>“It’s, uhm. No? Still, this is kind of an emergency. I’m-”</p><p>“First and last name, please.” The man asks, opening wider to let Eren sit on one of the chairs in front of his neatly kept desk.</p><p>“Eren. Jäger. Can I please call my mother?”</p><p>The man does not seem to recognize his name, which is not surprising from a newbie. He still extends the phone towards Eren, a wireless one. At least, his mother is home and will be able to clear this whole mess out for him.</p><p>It’s ringing. Eren only has to wait a few seconds before his mother picks up and he starts to talk and talk, hurries his story through the phone, he vomits words and words, until his heart goes haywire and panic overcomes him. He struggles to breathe and tears blind him.</p><p>Once he’s back down from his own fright, he awaits an answer, which does not come.</p><p>A man’s voice rise. He’s got the wrong number. However, he knows he didn’t mistype it. He can sing this number in his sleep.</p><p>He hangs up. Gives out the phone to the new supervisor, who presses a button and puts the device behind him, negligently.</p><p>“Eren, I’ve looked for your name in our database, you don’t seem to be signed up for this school. When were you born?”</p><p>“Oh, uhm. 1988. The 30<sup>th</sup> of March.”</p><p>The man gives a low rumble at that, a throaty laugh bursts out of him despite his attempts at hiding it.</p><p>“Now now, there’s no reason to lie about this.”</p><p>“I’m not lying. Eren Jäger, born on the 30<sup>th</sup> of March in 1988. Look for my name, sir, please...”</p><p>The man is perplexed but complies. His curiosity has been piqued, and as his fingers dance on a kind of computer Eren couldn’t have come up with in his wildest dreams, he wrinkles his eyebrows and falls deep in thought, as if hit by realization. Eren doesn’t like this grimace.</p><p>“… Young man, this is not funny anymore. Tell me your real name.”</p><p>Here goes his hope.</p><p>“It’s what I said. Eren Jäger. My sister should be in this school too, her name is Mikasa, we’re both-”</p><p>“This joke has to end”, the man declare with finality. “Eren Jäger died years ago. This school has suffered a lot after this boy and his classmate passed away, and I suggest you stop making fun of them. This sick joke ends right now. Now if you would kindly tell me your name-”</p><p>He can’t hear the end of that sentence. Not that he zones out or passes out. He doesn’t want to hear it. He gets up and leaves, his face bearing ghostlike features, he wants to cry, there is a ball of emotions stuck in his throat, he can’t swallow anymore.</p><p>So he cries. Because it seems like he’s just landed in a crazy world. A world where everyone gawks at him. A world exactly like his, except for small details which end up changing everything. A world where he doesn’t exist, a world where he has no place.</p><p>So he runs. There is only one person who can assure him all of this is real, that’s just a sick trick someone pulled on him. He runs because he knows the path to take by heart, he runs because, after this kind of day, taking the bus would aggravate things. He runs because he wants to find comfort behind his mother’s skirts.</p><p>So he starts to lose his mind. It’s how he feels. He doesn’t truly see where he’s hurrying himself, his body moves on its own and his mind has him in a tight grip, replaying horror, unhealthy scenarios in his head. He’s landed in another dimension, he’s dreaming. What ifs plague his mind until he reaches the gate to his house. That’s when the what ifs vanish and his mind is hollow, void like a bathtub after the plug has been pulled, his body empties itself, and he’s about to piss himself anyway.</p><p>The neatly carved letters that used to spell <em>Jäger</em>, gone. Another name instead, though he can’t read it. Beyond the wall, the grass is cut short and children’s toys lay around. From the window, Eren sees light.</p><p>He rings the bell.</p><p>A voice comes from the intercom. A voice he does not know. A voice that sounds so mistrustful he can feel the weird glare the woman might throw him as well.</p><p>“Do you know the Jäger family? They used to live here...”</p><p>He speaks these words with difficulty. It’s not his mother. It’s not her voice, there, inside the house, a house whose every detail he knows since he was little. Where could they be? His parents? Mikasa? Armin doesn’t live much further, maybe he could…</p><p>“Never heard of them.”</p><p>“Yes, we have,” another voice comes from behind. “That’s who we bought this house from, no?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah. I guess. They moved out.”</p><p>Eren mutters his thanks with a kind of desperation he didn’t know he had in him. He wants to curl up against a comfy chair, drown in the softness of the fabric, to make himself as little as possible. He wants to open his eyes and see a familiar face, a voice who’d tell him it’s all a joke. Prank!</p><p>It’s over now!</p><p>You can come back home.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Fallen Angel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2 class="western">
<span><em>17</em></span><sup><span><em>th </em></span></sup><span><em>of March 2005</em></span>
</h2><p class="western">“<span>Eren… this is my last warning. </span><span><em>Don’t</em></span><span> make me do it.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You won’t do anything!” Eren growls. “Don’t come closer with this instrument of the devil! You won’t get me!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span><em>This</em></span><span> was your last warning !” Armin cries out. “I’m getting Mikasa, I don’t give a fuck what you say now!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>NO! No, no no no no nonononono! </span><span>I’m sorry, </span><span><em>sorry</em></span><span>, don’t tell her, come back, I swear I want to do it actually!”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Eren runs after his friend, swinging his arms frantically in the vain hope of catching Armin’s slender hands to hold him back. Eren is proud of his body and his fitness routine, but Armin has always been good at running </span>
  <span>
    <em>away</em>
  </span>
  <span>, and it is no easy task to run up after him when he chooses the most crowded hallways and vanishes under the most attentive eyes even. Eren scrutinizeq the corridor in all its width, filled with students, in search for his best friend’s little blond head.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He whines of frustration.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Armin, I swear on my freaking mom, come out! I’m gonna let you comb it, don’t tell Mika, don’t tell her!”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>The students around him hardly pay attention to him. Eren would go as far as to say that they are used to their shenanigans. That is how no one considered Armin as he reemerges from the crowd like a flower, pushing the hairbrush into Eren’s hands with insistence.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Eren complains all the way back to the photographer’s room, forcing the brush and a comb through his brown locks. He exaggerates with pleasure when it comes to combing his hair, because it doesn’t hurt at all, his hair was way too short to get all tangled up, but it does look less disheveled after combing it, which is an A-Student look that Eren likes to avoid for himself. It suits Armin, it could suit Mikasa, but it certainly isn’t for him.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Your mom will love this photo, my little </span><span><em>Erenlein</em></span><span>”, Armin mocks lightheartedly. “Dude, you gotta learn to make efforts for your mom. It’s your graduation photo, you have to look good for her at least, man.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Yeah, not like my dad isn’t going to put it up on the fridge to then look at it every day like a dumbass and say ‘my strong boy’. He’s done it for </span><span><em>all</em></span><span> my past photos.” Eren grumbles, combing only the surface of his brown hair.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>That’s cute. You should enjoy it.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>No, you don’t get it. My photos end on the fridge where I’m ‘daddy’s strong boy’. Mikasa’s get framed and they hang above the TV so we have to see them each time we gotta, say, watch soccer. She has a throne for herself in the living room!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>... And you’re jealous because…?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I am </span><span><em>not</em></span><span> jealous. It’s just… weird. I’m not jealous, right?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Who knows. Perhaps if you get your hair brushed just right, your mom will frame your picture and put it next to Mika’s.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Armin huffs and puffs his cheeks and steals the comb from his hands, pushing it hard against his friend’s scalp to flatten his hair entirely through impetuous wrist motions. Eren winces and sighs, ready to fight back, but a new hand joins Armin’s and forcezs him to sit on the bank near the windows. Eren looks up to see his sister, adorning a fierce face. Armin gives her the comb; she goes straight to the matter at hand, made herself comfortable next to her brother and used the water from her personal bottle to tame the last rebellious strands led astray.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>That’s disgusting”, Eren moans, “Never do that again.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I’ll do it until you learn how to brush your hair. For Mom.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>She asked you to take care of him today again?” Armin inquires innocently, playing with a rubber band he found in his pocket. “What are you, a mother in training?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I don’t want him to look like a buffoon either. Get a load of him in our album photos otherwise.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Can you not go so hard!”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Eren is quickly silenced by his sister’s intense glare. She sets the comb aside and has him stand up so she can fix his outfit, unfolding his clothes, replacing his collar and tightening his pants.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Where are Sasha and Connie?” She asks as she carefully replaces the hem of his shirt. “I haven’t seen them for lunch.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>She’s rehearsing her speech”, Armin declares with boredom. “Thinks it’s necessary to be funny and all, so she’s trying to squish as many puns as she can. Of course Connie’s helping her. All that even if we know neither of them can word a decent sentence, so imagine a full speech.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Never thought she’d skip lunch for something so trivial. Guess she’s full of surprises.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You don’t say”, comes Armin’s answer. “She should type it and print it.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Eren rolls his eyes dramatically.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Dad won’t even let me use his computer”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>It’s not a toy, that’s why”, his sister reminds him. “By the way, I beat that boss for you in </span><span><em>FFX</em></span><span>.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>How d’you do that? It took me one night to even make it halfway through the fight!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I strategized.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>That’s not a word”, Armin corrects nicely.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Now it is. Actually, I farmed like a fucking pig. You owe me, Eren. You better make this picture the best picture of your damn life, or I’m deleting the save file.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>The boy groans at his sister’s antics, feeling the beard hair on his chin – thought it’s more fuzz at this point – though he doesn’t try to contradict her. He promises her he’d do his best, on a tone of voice she deems suspicious, more so because of Armin’s malicious smirk.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>I don’t want to know what kind of mess you intend to get yourself into </span><span><em>right now</em></span><span>.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Stop it, you’re not my mom.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>That’s exactly why I can hurt you more.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Armin looks at her, nodding submissively. She does know where to hit to make it hurt, although she has never raised a hand on Armin, he has seen her and Eren fight to her heart’s content numerous times before, that’s how it goes with siblings. Not that Armin is counting the fights, but Eren has rarely won. Armin couldn’t do any better, but Eren has this innate talent for pity that’s unbeatable.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Eren’s name is called and Mikasa finishes up quickly, sending him off with a friendly wave. He groans and pushes her away like the brother he is, then disappears in the photographer’s room.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="western">“<span>March 30</span><sup><span>th</span></sup><span>, 4 pm and the fucker still hasn’t realized it’s his birthday. He can’t be real…”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>He may be faking it?” Sasha suggestd softly after biting down on her doughnut. She replaces her bangs negligently, her greasy hand leaving icing on her forehead. “’Cause no one wished him anything. It’d be awkward to just say it then.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Eren? Known to avoid awkward situations? Are we talking about the same Eren?” Connie jokes, licking his fingers for the chips dust stuck on them. “It’s fine, guys. Mikasa’s already got everything covered for his party.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>How’s she keeping him away tonight?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Running errands or something. He’ll complain, but he’ll do it.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>They sip on their beverages in a comfortable atmosphere. Sasha is going over her speech repeatedly, whispering it in hushes between large bites of her snack. Jean envies her a bit and tries to distract himself by diving into his biology book.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The cafe is a convivial place. It is hardly frequented, which ensures them tranquil hours of studying. The only other persons are part of the usual clientele Hanji, the </span>
  <span>
    <em>exotic</em>
  </span>
  <span> owner of the shop, could gather around her quaint tables. They would order their favorite tea or caffeinated drinks. Her clientele was similar to her on many levels: she wasn’t exactly mean, but sometimes very brusque, yet she never meant harm. It didn’t make her benevolent or altruistic either, that had taken Jean some months to understand.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>With the look of a hermit, of a laid back and timid person, thanks to the square glasses on her humped nose, the brown bangs framing her face, the rest of her hair tied up behind, creating an unclean dark heap, she could fool anyone. Her small black eyes scrutinize others with a semblance of perfidy, which </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> but an appearance, and her words sometimes inexplicably dry, </span>
  <span>don’t</span>
  <span> make her any less friendly. She </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> eccentric, and no other word </span>
  <span>can</span>
  <span> fit her more.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>A concordance between the shop owner and the shop itself revealed itself to Jean over time. Her place </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> neither luxurious, nor exactly clean – not everywhere, at least – but there </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> a heart there, a soul, a human warmth which one cannot replace. Their little group of friends meet</span>
  <span>s </span>
  <span>up there two times a day, not always to buy, but to appreciate the others’ company, in this remote corner which </span>
  <span>gives</span>
  <span> them all the intimacy they want.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The walls </span>
  <span>are</span>
  <span> bare and the café </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> have any backroom. There </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> only what the eye </span>
  <span>can</span>
  <span> see, which </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> the illusion, since the outward austerity has nothing on the warm atmosphere that Jean and his friends love. In the same way, by looking further into the matter, by getting to know the owner and her place, one realizes that Hanji </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> a person </span>
  <span>like garlic</span>
  <span>. Layer under layer, oddity under oddity, she endeavors to be everything one </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> expect from a </span>
  <span>person</span>
  <span> of her age and profession.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The trust between the shop owner and the highschoolers, weaved upon their different encounters, more or less funny, has pushed Eren to offer Hanji his first résumé, which she refused for the fair reason that she </span>
  <span>never had </span>
  <span>the necessary income to employ anyone, back in the day.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Hanji has become a friend, not through the orthodox ways and means, but she </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> dear to them and </span>
  <span>is knowledgeable enough in many domains to help them on their homework</span>
  <span>. She </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> benefit from it, and it’s weird to get help from such an adult without compensation, and when they ha</span>
  <span>ve</span>
  <span> talked to her about it, she laughed it off and stated that their youth was enough. Jean had called her a "life leech", feeding off them for her own youth. Hanji saw through the offense and stated that it was but her secret rejuvenation technique.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Eren said he didn't understand the word.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Armin tried to explain it to him.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Mikasa pushed Hanji off, for she had tried to get close to her brother.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>And so their friendship was born</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>And their client-barista relationship ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> become an odd one since.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Speaking of which, the only other regulars </span>
  <span>make</span>
  <span> sure to honor the extraordinaire side of the place too. The most surprising couple, two men dressed like spies on a mission, </span>
  <span>come</span>
  <span> by for mere minutes every day, exchanging hushed whispers, and despite Connie’s and Christa’s obstinacy, they ha</span>
  <span>ve</span>
  <span> understood nothing of these top-secret conversations. The spy duo preserve their intimacy, ignoring anyone who </span>
  <span>isn’t</span>
  <span> Hanji, to whom the two men barely </span>
  <span>speak</span>
  <span> as well, although the crazy </span>
  <span>owner’s</span>
  <span> enthusiasm could coax some words about the weather out of the taller one.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Where’re the two freaks at, huh?” Jean asks mischievously loud, waiting for Hanji’s big ears to catch on his sentence, and her big mouth to come discuss whatever she ha</span><span>s</span><span> learned about the two mysterious entities since the last time.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>And heard him she ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>, nothing </span>
  <span>falls</span>
  <span> on deaf ears with her. Hanji arrives like a bulldozer, a wet cloth in her hands as she scrubs an invisible spot on her favorite clients’ table.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>You asking about Blondie and Grumpy?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You gave them nicknames?” Connie asks with obvious excitement. “Do they know about them?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Not like they ever gave me their names”, Hanji sighs. “So they’re Blondie and Grumpy. Haven’t heard any complaint from them. What I heard though, and you’re never gonna believe me, is that our national Blondie is not half the idiot we thought he was. I heard he was a big deal. Like, CEO kinda deal.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You’re dreaming”, Jean snickers. “What kinda CEO would even frequent your place?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I agree”, Hanji laughs loudly, putting the wet cloth on her shoulder after eying the mess Sasha ha</span><span>s</span><span> made. “Funny, still. The café for both broke highschoolers and CEOs. That’d be one hell of an online ad.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Knowing you, you’d word it like a pornsite video and then wonder why weirdos keep trying to hook up with you.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Pretty sure that’s not something a boy your age should be talking about, little Jean-bo.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Sasha chok</span>
  <span>es</span>
  <span> on her bite.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Where. Did. You. Hear. That?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>What do you think I do in my free time except stalking your lot? I know all there is to know about Jean-bo and his favorite omelet…!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Huh-huh, awesome. Someone must have made fun of me here and you heard it, you creep...”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I have intel. Don’t look too deep into it.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>The typical Hanji-esque, maniacal laughter </span>
  <span>gives</span>
  <span> Jean the chills for the first time since they’ve met. The end to their conversation is brought by Sasha shushing them with a movement of her right hand, her left one firmly grasping her strawberry.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>So my dudes, don’t you have classes to attend or something?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Hanji eventually stop</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> faking work and settle</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> down next to Connie who pull</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> a face at her wording.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>We’re exceptionally free,” he answer</span><span>s</span><span>, pushing her hand away </span><span>after</span><span> she trie</span><span>s</span><span> to grab his recently pierced ear lob. “Don’t touch that.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>It’s cute on you”, Hanji assur</span><span>es</span><span> him with a pat on the shoulder, which Connie shove</span><span>s</span><span> away as well. “Didn’t think you the type to be into… body modifications, but it’s nice, really!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span><em>Please</em></span><span>. I lost a bet. Shit happens.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You guys bet on piercings? The year is 2005 guys, that’s so old-fashioned. What are you, millenials?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>We are?” Jean tells her, more like a question than an affirmation. “What are </span><span><em>you</em></span><span>, even? Thirty? Forty?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I am sixty-thr-”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You’re not. You’re just a liar”, Jean sigh</span><span>s</span><span>. He </span><span>can</span><span> feel the tiredness that </span><span>comes</span><span> with Hanji’s presence. Her distraction </span><span>gives</span><span> him the opportunity to snatch the paper sheet out of Sasha’s hands negligently though, at which the brunet whine</span><span>s</span><span>, making grabby motions back at Jean.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He </span>
  <span>goes</span>
  <span> through the entire speech in the span of seconds and then turns to face Sasha to eye her with disdain, who merely climb</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> on the table to retrieve her goods.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Where the fuck do you mention me?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Nowhere, asshat. I mention my friends only.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You put Annie on there!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>She can be nice at times.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Do you mention your favorite barista?” A voice pipe</span><span>s</span><span> in.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>No, Hanji. My dad thinks I shouldn’t hang out here because everyone says you’re a weirdo.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Your dad isn’t wrong.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>A silence.</span>
</p><p class="western">“… <span>This is the reason you’re poor.” Jean comment</span><span>s</span><span>.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Okay, guys!” Sasha exclaim</span><span>s</span><span>, standing up with her paper sheet eventually retrieved. “See you tonight at the Jäger’s. I gotta go! Thanks Hanji for the free stuff!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>What free stuff?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>...</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Sasha r</span>
  <span>uns</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western"><span>And </span><span>runs</span> <span><em>fast</em></span><span>.</span></p><hr/><p class="western">
  <span>The sun sets and, reciprocally, the night </span>
  <span>grows</span>
  <span> longer, </span>
  <span>coloring</span>
  <span> the sky with black ink. Eren </span>
  <span>feels</span>
  <span>… empty. Shallow. Bare. His sadness, although obvious, </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> appear on his face, thank god it </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span>, yet he </span>
  <span>can’t</span>
  <span> explain why he </span>
  <span>feels</span>
  <span> that way. Sad and… desirous. No one has thought about wishing him a happy birthday; no one ha</span>
  <span>s </span>
  <span>congratulated him for his wonderful picture. His smile so bright, so proud, shining on his imperfect yet so realistically </span>
  <span>
    <em>Eren</em>
  </span>
  <span> face. He </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> splendid, and for once, </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> excited to show it to his mom. Even with the A-student look.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>But before that, he ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> errands to run. He </span>
  <span>keeps</span>
  <span> his picture on him like a precious jewel and bike</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> trough the city, though the night, through his own soul.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Well, not like it matter</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>. It’s just a birthday. Who cares for birthdays?</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>n’t even planned a party. Of course people would forget!</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>People forget stuff all the time. He always </span>
  <span>forgets</span>
  <span> many things as well, to the point that he once forgot his bag for school, so, it happens! It’s fine. He ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>n’t even seen his mom or dad today, so they’re excused...</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Yet… Eren wants to be selfish. He want</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> to forsake these stupid errands and go buy himself a new videogame or perhaps run to Hanji’s and talk her ears out and complain, or…</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The tears wanting to pour out </span>
  <span>aren’t</span>
  <span> easy to ignore. He bike</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> faster, determined to get things done. Then he would get back home and disregard the emptiness in his stomach, the sour taste in his mouth, the dryness of his lips.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Stupid Mikasa forgetting her stupid bag in this stupid locker room. How </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> he going to get into the school gymnasium so late in the evening? One of the janitors might still be here, perhaps even the one who </span>
  <span>knows</span>
  <span> him well! This guy would surely allow him into the girls’ locker room… to retrieve… his sister’s bag.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The more he trie</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> to reason with himself, the more Eren realize</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> how puerile it all sound</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>. No one would ever let him in, he’d sound like a creep and… perhaps Mikasa lied. How smart would he look then?</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The jerk might have made that up just to ruin his day. He kn</span>
  <span>o</span>
  <span>ws his sister, and she </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> nice most of the time, but </span>
  <span>every time he’s endebted to her, she finds a way to toughen things up</span>
  <span>. All of this mess might as well just be her price for beating the boss in </span>
  <span>
    <em>Final Fantasy</em>
  </span>
  <span>!</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The only solace Eren has is that he may be the only idiot that will break into the school for a misplaced bag, and that’s something he </span>
  <span>can</span>
  <span> brag about to Jean afterwards, so it’s not that bad a situation. And, what? Getting into the school when it </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> forbidden </span>
  <span>
    <em>is</em>
  </span>
  <span> the kind of adventure he long</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> for. The thrill, the excitement of breaking the rules for something so trivial!</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> feel so bad in the end. He shouldn’t get paranoid of his sis, she… begrudgingly may or may not be his best friend, and she ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> beaten the unbeatable boss anyway. He might as well go on with this and let himself calm down on the way. He mentally apologize</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> to her.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>After this one night, he’d have the weekend for himself. That’s consolation enough, he guesse</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>So he pedals on and on.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He </span>
  <span>begins</span>
  <span> to recognize the streets he passe</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>. He </span>
  <span>goes</span>
  <span> through a half-opened gate, leaving his bike behind, and enter</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> the soccer field. The stadium lights </span>
  <span>are</span>
  <span> still on, although everything </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> silent, even the bestial roaring of the coach </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> absent. But the lights </span>
  <span>are</span>
  <span> on, so a team must have been there for late training. That means the lockers </span>
  <span>are</span>
  <span> still occupied, and so, he could find a way in.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He h</span>
  <span>as</span>
  <span> to jog through the entire field to reach the building, and </span>
  <span>sure is </span>
  <span>ready to do it, yet as soon as he lays a foot on the grass, he notice</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> a figure on the ground, at the center of the field.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He trie</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> to reason with himself as he approache</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> it. The wet grass </span>
  <span>licking</span>
  <span> his ankles, the fatigue accumulated from his biking remind him of the numerous times he’s tried to play soccer. God is he too much of a sore player; he ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> been advised more than once not to immerge himself in competitive environments. He pushes these distracting thoughts away. The temperature drop</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> suddenly, a cold wind, like a wave, submerge</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> the area, the stars melt with the sky reddened by the timid sunbeams.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>It’s a body.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He runs up to the </span>
  <span>lying</span>
  <span> person and thr</span>
  <span>ows</span>
  <span> himself on the ground next to them. He recognize</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> a classmate of his, Thomas. His hair </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> stained with dirt and stuck to his bloody forehead.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Eren jumps back from fear. His hand and knees, bloodstained. When he realize</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> it, he h</span>
  <span>as</span>
  <span> to stop himself from shrieking.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>It was impossible. Not a corpse… no…</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He </span>
  <span>falls</span>
  <span> back down next to Thomas and wills himself to ignore the blood and the wounds of his face. He place</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> a gentle ear next to Thomas’ mouth, hearing the weakest blow. Eren </span>
  <span>caves in to the panic and shrieks</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Thomas! Thomas! Do you hear me? Wake up, Thomas! Stay with me, okay? Thomas, please…!”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> to go get help. He need</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> a phone booth or could go to his father’s hospital directly and ask for the man in person, he ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> to do something, anything! He </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> drown in inner conflicts and </span>
  <span>runs</span>
  <span> through the field in record time. He pushe</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> the gate, which echoes like a blast as it collide</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> against the brick wall, and jumps on his bike. He </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> remember the exact path to take, but he </span>
  <span>will</span>
  <span> pedal until he has </span>
  <span>assistance</span>
  <span> to bring back.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Unfortunately, the streets </span>
  <span>are</span>
  <span> dead empty.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Thomas was still breathing before he left, he </span>
  <span>can</span>
  <span> save him, he </span>
  <span>can</span>
  <span> be useful! Would have it been more helpful to stay…? No. He </span>
  <span>wouldn have watched him agonize</span>
  <span>. He ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> been forced to go.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The night eventually </span>
  <span>brings</span>
  <span> drizzle with it. The droplets collide with his face violently and join the tears rolling down his face and falling behind him as he bike</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> even faster. He choke</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> on nothing, a ball of emotion growing in his throat, he stop</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> salivating for a long while, his tongue dry as he pant</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>. The night growing darker. The streets stripped of life.</span>
</p><p class="western"><span>He </span><span>takes</span><span> a corner, remembering the path he had taken to meet with his mom after she had fallen gravely ill. He </span><span>can’t</span><span> afford to waste time, he strain</span><span>s</span><span> himself, the burning sensation in his legs </span><span>keeps</span><span> fading in and out of his consciousness. His pants </span><span>are</span><span> soon followed by a stitch in his side. He </span><span>loses</span><span> control over his bike. His hand instinctively </span><span>let go</span><span> the handle to protect his face. His feet </span><span>leave</span><span> the pedals, he attempts to jump off the bike, it </span><span>keeps</span> <span>accelerating</span><span>, he </span><span>can’t</span><span> stop it, it </span><span>is</span><span> going downhill </span><span>and he’s going along with it</span><span>.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>At the end of the street, a crossroads. A wound from the fall? A broken leg? A lost tooth? An opened skull?</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He doesn’t any of that. Taken by an elan vital, he hits the brakes irregularly, while a hand massages the stitch.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>A klaxon thunders.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>His heart </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> beating a fast paced melody, never ending, growing stronger after each note. His breathing so tight it </span>
  <span>begins</span>
  <span> to make a whistling noise.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>A flash of light, he is dazzled. He cries out, but then, </span>
  <span>all the noise around faints</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The rain has stopped. Everything remains dark. He </span>
  <span>thinks he’s become deaf</span>
  <span>. </span>
  <span>The bite of the cold has left his body.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>His heart does not have to beat anymore. His thoughts are hazy. He is lighter, lighter than air, or perhaps way heavier. </span>
  <span>Both</span>
  <span> sensations coexist and do not cancel each other out. It is </span>
  <span>so comfortable that he doesn’t want to question it, though, he knows it’s nothing like sleep. It’s not like closing one’s eyes in a warm bed. He hears billions of things at once, and he hears nothing, he smells that someone’s calling him, he has a taste for odors, and feels pictures of his life being engraved in his skin. His senses mix, he is pulled to towards the Moon, and, as if hitched to a carriage, he is taken away, in the depths of the firmament. He needed to find help, and now, he has to go.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The night envelops the mysteries in its obscure </span>
  <span>shroud</span>
  <span>. There will be no </span>
  <span>witness, no salvation, no living soul to tell the tale. His song’s rhythm, unstoppable, marks the end of his story. And when the night will cease, the Sun will show its head on the horizon, and, with a fateful melody, will bewitch the earth and the sky and will cry the requiem of dawn.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Eren will never hear it.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="western">
  <span>Mikasa slaps Sasha’s wrist away with a scowl.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>If you can’t hold yourself back for thirty minutes, you’re sleeping in the same bed as Reiner.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Sasha grumbles an apology and </span>
  <span>leaves</span>
  <span> the kitchen. She join</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> up with the others in their lively discussions while they help decorate and prepare around the house. Some ha</span>
  <span>ve</span>
  <span> brought sleeping bags – although Mika</span>
  <span>sa</span>
  <span> ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> clarified beforehand that there were enough beds for everyone, but that’s always how it goes with Armin’s grandfather or some friends’ parents she ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> not met yet.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>It’</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> fine anyway. They could house everyone, and her mom ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> assured she wouldn’t bother them for anything after </span>
  <span>the party’s begin. Her father wouldn’t be present, but he has left a neatly written letter for her to give to her brother, the ink floats on the paper with elegance and wishes Eren only the best, in moderation. Their father isn’t a man for parties or extravagance, even for his son’s eighteenth birthday.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Mikasa has organized everything, from A to Z. She is this close to having an alphabetical </span>
  <span>
    <em>and</em>
  </span>
  <span> chronological list for the evening, which makes Armin laugh slyly, since he knows nothing she’s prepared will turn out the way she expects. But she felt like she had to do it, so he did, for Eren, for her best friend for her brother, the only person who knows her better than she does herself. He is her world, and although he doesn’t look like he reciprocate these feelings, she knows the truth, a truth he tries to hide. She isn’t alone, never will be, always by his side. Because Eren is present for every step she makes, because no matter the insulting words they can exchange, no matter the childish quarrels, they were in this together, for the best and the worst.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>No, she wouldn’t describe them like traditional siblings, mostly because they do not have this visceral hatred binding them, and secondly because they are not blood related. They met when they were seven, brought together by tragic circumstances, in a moment of despair. She latched onto him and cried on his shoulder; since that, they have not left each other’s side. Later even, he cried his heart out on her shoulder, and they grew up thinking that, obviously, life isn’t meant to be lived alone.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>You’re not going to make some kind of </span><span>tearjerking</span><span> speech, right?” Armin c</span><span>o</span><span>mes to her, holding some balloons between his fingers. “Eren will tear you alive.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>As if. And no, I don’t want to embarrass him. He knows I’m here for him. Always. That doesn’t need reminding.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>So? What’s your present for him?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>It’s a recipe book so he can finally learn how to cook and, well. A phone. My father helped me choose one.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Damn, he’ll love that! That’s actually a good idea. Jean said his ‘presents’ would be just that. His </span><span><em>presence</em></span><span>.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Jean is an idiot but at least he </span><span>can be</span><span> funny.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Be glad he didn’t hear that. He doesn’t need the ego boost.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>She laugh</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> softly. Armin needing help to reach the place where he’d tie the balloons together, she </span>
  <span>helps him out</span>
  <span> and joins the others in their banter. She </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> happy to see Christa having fun with the foreign student. She </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> actually a regular in their activities, being friend with Christa and all, but she remain</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> the “foreign student” in their collective thoughts. Ymir </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> a sportive monster and encourage</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> Mikasa to go to the gym with her, an offer she ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> accepted twice or thrice, purely because Ymir’s idea of a conversation </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> ignoring anything that </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> involve Christa and then talking anyone’s ears out about </span>
  <span>her beloved Christa</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Add to that that Ymir’s English was sometimes strenuous and Mikasa relishe</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> in the </span>
  <span>
    <em>after</em>
  </span>
  <span> time of meeting up with Ymir, a time where she </span>
  <span>can</span>
  <span> tend to her headache and eventually rest.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Someone </span>
  <span>makes music boom out of the Hi-Fi system next to the TV</span>
  <span>, a quick rhythm which punctuate</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> their moves, some dancing along to the tune. Marco whistling as he </span>
  <span>brings</span>
  <span> the video game consoles from Eren’s room to the living room, where they’</span>
  <span>ll</span>
  <span> all play together. That </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> Eren’s favorite activity after all.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Mikasa’s attention is immediately sucked in by the kitchen door opening with a creak. Her mom enters the room at some point, wondering out loud where </span>
  <span>her son</span>
  <span> could be.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>He’s taking his sweet time”, she comment</span><span>s</span><span>. “Are you sure he didn’t run into problems? What exactly did you ask him to do?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Said I had forgotten my bag in the lockers’ room. Perhaps he was arrested after trying to break in?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Some snicker and her mom sigh</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Knowing him, I wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Maybe you should’ve gone with him, Armin”, Mikasa eventually </span><span>says</span><span>. “At least you know how to break in silently.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Her mother glare</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>, unsure if Mikasa </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> joking or not. This uncertainty </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> Mikasa’s favorite kind of jokes, so she </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> say anything else and relish</span>
  <span>es</span>
  <span> in the awkwardness she ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> installed.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>"He’s damn lucky he's getting a phone", Carla resign</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>. "I swear one day we're gonna lose this boy."</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>There </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> a pause, until Carla add</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>:</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>"Again."</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>"Again?" Armin ask</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> out loud, voicing everyone's concern. "What do you mean, 'again'"?</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>"We misplaced him once when he was a baby. We were on holiday in one of these small cottages. Purely and simply misplaced him."</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>"Sorry, you misplaced your baby?” </span>
  <span>comes</span>
  <span> Marco’s inquiring voice. “Your… only son?”</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Carla eye</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> the highschoolers around her like they ha</span>
  <span>ve</span>
  <span> grown a second head.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Well, that sure explains why he’s like </span><span><em>that</em></span><span>.” Jean snicker</span><span>s</span><span>, getting smacked on the back of the head by Marco. “Come on, we all know he isn’t right in the head.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>It’s an easy thing to say about anyone”, </span><span>Annie</span><span> note</span><span>s.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>We lured him to us with food”, Carla </span><span>goes</span><span> on. “Food I had prepared. Because he liked it so much. He was crawling on the grass trying to stand up and get the plate in my hands. A stomach in diapers, I swear.” She eye</span><span>s</span><span> them all again, sighing. “I cried my heart out when I realized he had gotten lost. That was the only way I had to find him back!”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Mikasa remain</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> quiet for a bit, fishing the note she ha</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> left at home for Eren to read. To get him moving.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>"Get your shit together and go get my backpack at the gymnasium. Don’t die out there, xoxo"</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>She smile</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> because she kn</span>
  <span>ows</span>
  <span> Eren would find it funny.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>She put</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> it back in her pocket and wait</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> patiently for her brother to get home.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you liked it. Think about leaving a comment if you'd like! There is more to come too, obviously! You can follow me on my AOT twitter account (WARNING: AOT S4 spoilers on my account!) here:<br/>https://twitter.com/lioheij<br/>Additional tags (as well as characters!) will be added along with the next chapters, so stay tuned.</p><p>On a side note: I must apologize for using she/her pronouns for Hange. I know they are considered nonbinary, and I myself think they are. My problem lies with the fact I write this story in French first, then translate it into English. I thought about adapting Hange's pronouns too, but I felt like it would've been insulting for my nonbinary French readers. Nonbinary pronouns aren't well implemented in French, and I struggled to find a way to make them work. I didn't want to be dishonest to my French readers, so I chose to align with the anime in both versions of this fic. Again, I apologize. Hange is a strong character who functions outside of preestablished gender norms, and I like Hange just like that.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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